


These Tales That Are Our Lives

by sleepy_orange



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2742257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_orange/pseuds/sleepy_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many tales and legends told about King Arthur - which are true and which are lies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by the KMM prompt of Merlin helping Gwen and Arthur to conceive much in the same way Nimueh did, but deliberately sacrificing himself. After a while, Gwen and Arthur start to notice their son has a strange likeness to a friend of theirs.

There are some stories that we remember for all our lives. 

As children, we are read them every night before we go to bed, warm and comfortable under the covers, a soft light shining on our parents as they tuck us in. We dream of princesses kidnapped by evil sorcerers and held captive in high towers, doomed to wait out the rest of their lives for the one knight in shining armour. We cheer on the golden prince, tall and handsome on his horse, galloping through every obstacle to rescue her. We pretend we are them, the beautiful princess and the brave prince, because we know that our own adventure is out there waiting for us when the sun shines again. 

As teenagers, we watch them in the movies, the same story of girl-meets-boy, girl-hates-boy, girl-loves-boy replaying over and over again. The scenes change, the actors are replaced by teen heartthrobs, but the story remains the same. We scoff at them, laughing at the air-head girl who is more beauty than brains and jeering at the pretty-boy actor spouting stilted dialogue. But we watch them anyway, cheesy dialogue and all, because we’re still only children and we do still dream of someone whisking us away to a happier life. 

As adults, we read those stories to our own children, lovingly slipping in beside them on the narrow bed and reading aloud. We do all the different voices, a high-pitched girly tone for the princess, a deep base for the prince and a croaky whisper for the evil witch. We like to hear our children laugh at our voices, so we do it every night, even as we wonder if we shouldn’t be reading to them stories of a smart princess who does the rescuing herself instead of waiting for the prince. We try a different story, and this time it’s the prince who needs to be rescued, but by the end of the night, the children are asking for the old story again. So we go back, to that old tale of princesses and princes, because despite it all, we pray that one day our children will find their own happy ending. 

It is these stories that we remember for all our lives, because underneath all that Disney magic and crazy old-wives tale, is a truth that we recognise. For these stories come from legend, and legend is what happens when even history gets too old to be remembered. And these stories - these tales of a trapped princess and a prince who has to overcome obstacles to be worthy of his prize - were once, a very long time ago, true. 

*****

King Arthur and Queen Guinevere – two names that will forever bring to mind images of a time long ago when there really existed knights in shining armour and the lovely ladies that are deserving of them. It is the romantic tale of a young charismatic king falling in love with the beautiful princess of a far-away kingdom. It is a tale that is worthy of any bard – a tale of sweet courtship and a passionate marriage, of deception and false identities, of trust and betrayal, and of a treasonous affair that brought the downfall of a great King. It is a tale that will endure the test of time and be remembered for all eternity. 

The story of Arthur and Gwen makes for a far less dramatic retelling. It was messy and complicated, a tangled mess of miscommunication and hidden emotions, of hurt feelings and broken hearts, and of days spent angry and frustrated, wondering how things would ever resolve itself. But there were good things too – the simple joy of walking down the hall hand-in-hand with a lover, the overflowing happiness of seeing a loved one after months of separation, the quiet content of being allowed to love whoever they wanted and having that love returned. 

And most importantly, like any story worth telling, it was real. 

\---

Arthur and Gwen’s wedding had been a long drawn-out affair that had lasted a whole week; countless balls and feasts filling the nights while the days were full of meetings with visiting dignitaries. 

Gwen had to be presented to the nobles of the court, had to mingle and talk, wooing and persuading even the most old-fashioned lord that it was to Camelot’s advantage that she allowed a former serving girl to be her Queen. She had endured days of lessons – court protocol, history, decorum, politics - and spent hours in front of a mirror being stuck with pins while the seamstress prepared her wedding gown. All this - surrounded by countless of people bustling around her but not seeing her, talking at her but not to her, asking opinions and then brushing them off when she volunteered hers – and she had never felt so lonely in her life before. 

Arthur was busy with his own preparations for the wedding, fending off desperate last-minute attempts by well-meaning fathers to foist their daughter off on him, clearing with Gaius on the duties that his queen would have to perform and looking through Igraine’s belongings, kept hidden and dusty in an old room by a corner of the castle that was oft-forgotten, searching for her old crown. He might not be terribly sure that he was ready to get married or even that Gwen was the woman for him – it had been Merlin’s idea that if he had to take a wife, he might as well take someone that he knew and respected – but if they were going to do this, if they were going to make Gwen queen and start building an Albion that would prosper, then he was going to do it right. 

They knew, by now, that they didn’t love each other, at least not in the way that husbands and wives were supposed to love, when the loss of the other would be so crushing to the soul that they would spend the rest of their lives a shadow of who they were. They had spent so much time in their youths convincing themselves that they were in love; hours spent repeating it to themselves and each other, as if the sheer belief of it would make it true. 

And for a while, it had been true. 

But then Lancelot had come back, Merlin had almost died one morning fighting a sorceress, and Arthur and Gwen realised that there were layers to love that theirs did not even begin to reach. 

When Lancelot was around, Gwen glowed, a shining bubble of happiness around her that had not been seen her father’s death. He treated her like the queen he already knew she would someday be, and in return, she made him her world. Merlin had been the one to show Arthur that the world did not revolve around him, that is was not his princely right to have everything he demanded and that it was always sweeter to have to work for a victory. He called him names - some fond, some exasperated - and at night, when they lay curled together on the bed, Arthur gave him a place to belong. 

It was easy then to move from being in love to just loving each other, and maybe they hadn’t truly been in love then because neither felt the loss too keenly. 

Then Uther had died, Arthur had been crowned by the week’s end, and the vultures had descended, carrying marriage proposals and betrothals on the backs of a promised treaty. Arthur’s own advisors had been pressuring him to pick his consort, Camelot eager to finally have her Queen back, and somehow, one night, lying on the floor of Gwen’s house, Lancelot and Merlin next to him as they drank his troubles away, Merlin’s rhetoric of putting Gwen - sweet Gwen who had not a drop of noble blood in her but was more than worthy of the title - on the throne hadn’t seem so crazy. 

A plan had been drawn up, a course of action planned out and slowly the idea that had originally seemed so ludicrous had been executed. They were finally here - the wedding having finally taken place that afternoon - at the end of a long tiring week, but only at the beginning of their journey, and once the excitement and adrenaline had run off, all that was left was for each of them to wonder at the long road ahead. 

Gwen, her protests falling on deaf ears as she tried to stop the serving girls - her friends - from calling her ‘your majesty’, having to watch as they distanced themselves from her, a small circle of friends becoming even smaller and cutting her off from the world, wondered if she would always feel this lonely. 

Lancelot, forced to share his beloved with another man, his own dreams of becoming husband and father falling away, feared of a day ever coming when she would love Arthur best

Merlin, doubting his own wisdom as he watched Arthur twirl Gwen on the dance floor, heart clenching painfully as he caught the loving glances shared between husband and wife, worried that the course he had set for them would only lead to tragedy and heartbreak. 

And Arthur, torn between the guilt he felt at Gwen’s increasing isolation, the sympathy he shared with Lancelot’s feelings of inadequacy and the jealousy that coursed through his blood at Merlin’s casual flirtations with the other noblemen, hoped that before the inevitable crumbling end, there would be a glorious future.

*****

Legend would remember the years of King Arthur’s reign as the golden age – a time when the people and the land prospered as one, the likes of such having not been seen since before King Uther tore the land apart to make it his own. 

Bards and minstrels spread the word of the King’s just rule to distant lands, while travelling merchants made Camelot their home, bringing with them rare goods and wares. Half-empty taverns found themselves filled up with laughing men at the end of a long day’s work. Lonely street carts were once again filled with food to eat and trinkets to buy. Festivals were held celebrating the days of the Old Religions, and the streets were once more filled with happy sounds. 

The land itself seemed to grow anew. Infertile lands that had been abandoned for years were suddenly green again, welcoming back peasants who had once lived there. Withered old trees that were on the verge of dying suddenly bore fruit again, drawing back birds to nest once again amongst its branches. Dry rivers that were nothing more than soil and stones were flowing with water once more, fish and frog filling it up again. 

It was a time when new laws were written over the old, when the rains washed over the last reminders of dark deeds and crazy kings, and when a young King would finally make good of his promise that things would be different.

For once, the legends were right. 

\---

The first few years of their reign were glorious.

Arthur was as golden a King as he was a prince, and sometimes even more so, with the red of his ceremonial robes bringing out the burnished gold of his hair, making it glow brighter. His people were in constant awe of him, revering him like they might an old god come to life. His knights were loyal and fiercely protective of him, their young prince who had grown up amongst them, who had laughed with them and cried with them, and who now, ruled over them. To the public, Arthur was never anything but perfect, so out-of-reach and yet so human all the same. 

Only Merlin would know of the hours he spent in the dark of his chambers wrestling with his father’s ghost, fighting against what he had been taught since birth and what he knew was right. He had questioned his every decision, wondering what Uther would have done, and if he shouldn’t just do the exact opposite of that. He swore to himself that he would not be the King that his father was, that he would be just, that he would be fair, that he would listen and do, and love his people as they deserved to be loved. 

Gwen was ever by his side, the softer side to his rough edges. While Arthur was ruthless in his smiting of enemies, she was gentle in seeking out new allies, cajoling and persuading that it was in their best interest to ally with Camelot. She would promise that they were a trustworthy ally, and in her soft sincere eyes, they would find only truth, for as beautiful as she was to look at, Gwen’s real beauty lay in her heart. She saw only the best in the knights and sought to teach them the greater parts of gallantry and chivalry while Arthur zeroed in on their cracks, preying on their weaknesses and beating it out of them till they knew courage and valour. She would be there after their training sessions, ready to help them with any wounds, not afraid - never afraid - of getting her hands dirty. And how could a knight not love his Queen and swear himself to her service when she was kneeling in front of him bandaging his leg?

She walked the lower towns. She talked to the stall holders, the serving girls, the playing children. She learned their names and of their families. She knew of every birth - smiling joyfully as the bakers welcomed a grand-daughter into their family - and every death in the city – securing a place in the castle for the miller’s wife after he had been found dead one morning. Through Arthur, the people knew what it was like to be protected, and through Gwen, they learnt how to love their liege.

While Arthur and Gwen worked to strengthen Camelot from within, Merlin and Lancelot became their emissaries to the neighbouring lands. 

More than just simple entertainment during feasts and banquets, Merlin used his magic to feel the land, travelling to places that were nothing more than scorched earth, black and brittle under his feet. Grass would not grow and the trees formed a circle around the hallowed ground, leaves whispering of the tortured screams that would ring out at night as Uther’s purge found its way from village to village. He would sit for hours, touching his fingers to the warm ground, offering silent apologies, talking to the empty air of the great things he and Arthur had dreamt up, promising that one day, the land would see the green of grass again and hear the happy childish laughter of growing children. 

The magic here was older and stranger, the very earth slow to anger, but slow to forgive as well, and for every drop of innocent blood spilled needlessly on it, the earth demanded recompense, draining Merlin’s energies till it saw to the very core of this fledgling and deemed it pure. And finally, satisfied that here at least, in this one little corner of the kingdom, the land welcomed Arthur as its King, Merlin would move on to the next patch of burnt earth. 

Lancelot too traveled far and wide, visiting the outlying villages and bringing them word of Arthur’s reign. He met old men, weathered by age and the weather, brown skin wrinkling under the hot sun as they toiled in the fields, preferring this - an exiled life - to one under a tyrant king. He met broken women, their distrusting eyes following his every move as he walked around the village, yelling at their children to go back inside whenever he got too close, fear clouding the distrust for just one second as he laid a hand on the young ones. He met wide-eyed children, brought up on tales of the horrible things that happened in Camelot, of young boys and girls their age burned at the stake or drowned for owning a doll with the likeness of the prince, of idealistic teenagers being brought in for questioning by the palace guards and never seen again. 

Lancelot met with the men, met with the women, met with the children, and for every one of them, he would tell a story about a king who listened to the advice of his old manservant, a man who had a former servant for his wife, and a prince who had disobeyed his father’s orders and made a commoner a knight of the realm. 

They were glorious, the four of them, and for a while, Albion was happy, content in the knowledge that her rightful King was finally on the throne.

But slowly, the cracks started to show. 

*****

It is said that the Queen Guinevere never bore the King a child, that she was barren, an empty womb waiting for a baby that would never come. Some whispered that it was a curse, that upon her first act of adultery with the knight Lancelot, the Court Sorcerer had cursed her forever to be motherless, for he would not have the Pendragon line tainted with a bastard son. They spoke of nights when the Queen could be heard wailing in her chambers, crying out in pain, as rivulets of blood ran down her legs, for she had been with child that night the curse had been laid on her. And there were rumours, years after the death of the Queen, that in the quietest hour of the night, a faint voice could be heard calling out to a son that never existed, begging him to come back to her. 

Gossip. Rumours. Little snippets of history spread by word-of-mouth, passed down from generation to generation, till they become myth, old-wives tale told to young girls to scare them into faithfulness. And what was once the tragic story of a woman’s heartbreak at being unable to conceive soon turned into a horrifying tale of unforgiving ghosts haunting pregnant women. For stories change, details are lost, new material added in, and the truth somehow gets lost amidst the new retelling. 

\---

Arthur had been furious when he’d found out, not that Merlin wasn’t expecting him to be, but it still shocked him a little when Arthur had come banging into his room, rage making the air around him buzz with electricity. 

“What did you do?” Arthur hissed, striding towards where Merlin had been doing some reading. “Gwen is with child, so now tell me, what did you fucking do, Merlin?”

There was only silence as Merlin continued to look down at the open page. His fingers were shaking, he realised, and maybe he hadn’t thought through how he was going to explain this to Arthur, how he was going to make him understand that this was necessary, that Merlin had needed to do this. He had spent days agonizing over his decision, turning it over and over in his head, wondering if this was the right thing to do, if there was anything else he could have done. But he’d seen the unhappy tilt in Gwen’s mouth, had watched for hours as she played with the children from the lower town, a deep longing in her eyes, had heard the rumours of Arthur taking a mistress, and knew that there was no other way. This was his mistake, his own miscalculation and he had to fix it.

“Is this - ,” Arthur’s voice choked a little, “Is this about us? Is this your way of telling me that you’re unhappy I married Gwen? Because that was your idea, Merlin.”

Merlin’s head snapped up, horrified that of all the conclusions Arthur could have drawn from his actions, this was the one that he had come to. “What? Arthur, no.” He sighed. “I think I might have made a mistake.” He corrected himself, “Or maybe not so much as a mistake as a misjudgement?”

All the rage seemed to seep out of Arthur as he sat himself opposite Merlin, and with a tired voice, said, “Explain, Merlin.”

So Merlin did. 

“You and Gwen, you’re the greatest thing to ever happen to Camelot. This peace we have now, it’s all because of you - both of you - because you don’t just keep the people safe, you make them happy too.” Here, Merlin paused, and when he continued, there was a fierceness to his voice, “And I don’t regret that at all. I don’t, Arthur.

But I think I forgot that not everyone wins in this. I get to practice my magic freely, you get to see Camelot prosper, Lancelot gets to have his knighthood, but what about Gwen, Arthur? What does she get?”

Arthur opened his mouth to interrupt, but Merlin cut him off, “No, you need to listen to me. Gwen is lonely, Arthur. What did she get out of this? What did she get besides a husband who does not share her bed, a lover who is almost in too much awe of her and a friend who,” his face grimaces, “is too absorbed in his magic to be her friend much anymore?”

“So you decided to give her a child?” Arthur’s face is a mask of incredulity, as if he almost could not believe the stupidity of Merlin. “You decided to give her a playmate?”

Merlin’s face hardened. “You need an heir, Arthur.”

“Yes, I do. But not if it means sacrificing you.” Arthur’s voice dropped. “I won’t be my father, Merlin.”

“You won’t, Arthur. I’m not going to let Gwen die during childbirth.”

Merlin stood up, a sort of restless energy taking over him as he tried to get Arthur to understand this, because it was important. He’d seen it all, that night in the forest where he’d made his deal, how their lives were all going to end, how everything they had worked so hard to build were going to fall apart, and how, in a future full of unimaginable things, they were going to be remembered. 

“This,” he gestures around, “is just one of our lives. We’ve had many before, and we’ll have more to come. You are the Once and Future King and I am your sorcerer, and as long as the world continues to exist, that is what we will always be. We’ll have many more lifetimes to experience, many more to go through, to be together.

But Gwen,” Merlin’s voice turns melancholic, as if he’s reliving something, a thing from his past, and not something that has yet to even happen, “is unhappy now. And she’ll be even more unhappy in the future. She’ll fall in their eyes, the Queen seen as no better than a tavern whore, and she’ll die in disgrace, alone and far away from Camelot. They won’t remember her kindly, not her gentle smiles or her kind words. They won’t see how lonely she was, how deafening a silence she endured in her chambers, cut off from her friends and no family left. Nor will they ever know how much of a relief Lancelot was to her, like the rays of freedom to a woman trapped in a cage. 

You’ll be remembered well - you, Camelot, some of your knights, even me. But for a long time, Gwen only be known as a traitor. She won’t come back for a long time, not for a few lifetimes at least, and she won’t be happy for an age either, the taint and the hurts always too close to the surface.”

He turns to face Arthur, sounding urgent now, because this is so important, it is so very important that Arthur understands why he’s doing this. “I can change that. I can give her a little bit of happiness now. And maybe, later, when you’re busy with your battles and your meetings, and all she has are the four walls in her rooms, she won’t be so lonely. She’ll have him, your son, to hold and to love, to comfort and to seek comfort from. Maybe I can change this one thing, Arthur. Maybe the future is still fluid, and maybe our destinies are not set in stone. If I can just give her this one thing, maybe she’ll be happy.”

There was only silence now as Arthur tried to process everything he’d said. Finally he spoke, “And what about me, Merlin? Will I be happy?”

Merlin smiled at him. “Yes. You’ll have your son. You’ll have an heir.”

“But I won’t have you.”

No. 

No, he wouldn’t, and Merlin didn’t know what else to say to Arthur, what else he could say to convince him that this was the right thing to do, if not for them, then at least for Gwen and Camelot. Because Camelot needed an heir and Gwen needed something to hold on to. She had already lost so much - too much - and it was unfair that she had to lose her people too. Arthur was never hers to really have and Lancelot, she had lost the moment she became queen. Those things Merlin could not change. 

But Camelot was all she had left. She was their Queen and they were her people. It would not do for the people to see their Queen pushed to the background as a lesser woman bore the heir. And this was something that Merlin could control. 

Maybe there really wasn’t much more he could say, because while King Arthur of Camelot might understand his reason, Arthur wouldn’t, not now and probably not ever. That was just something that Merlin would have to live with, the knowledge that in all their lifetimes together, Arthur would never quite forgive him for this. 

And he’s okay with that, has accepted it for what it was, because like he told Arthur, they would have all of eternity with each other - years, decades, centuries – a stretch of forever so long that Merlin couldn’t see the end of it. But this was his one chance of making it up to Gwen, to finally be the friend that he claimed to be, and even if it meant that Arthur wouldn’t speak to him for the next 500 years, he was going to take it.

So he said nothing, just went over to where Arthur was still sitting, a resigned hunch set in his shoulders, his head hung low, and pressed a soft gentle kiss to his hair. As Merlin left the room, knowing that what Arthur needed now was to be alone, he heard a final whispered question.

“What have you done?”

*****

Legend tells of the story of King Arthur and Camelot, of great deeds performed and greater foes vanquished. Of a round table where every individual was seen as equal in their own merit and of the knights that sat around that table and the noble qualities they upheld. It also paints a picture of golden kings and shining knights, of damsels-in-distress and mythical creatures, of wise advisors and prophetic seers. There is the King, the bravest king the world has ever seen, splendid in his gold and red, the sun shining a halo round his head, bestowing him with its grace. And there is the Queen, her dark brown curls falling gracefully down her back, beautiful and glowing in her gown of gold and yellow. Then there is the Knight, favoured by the Queen and most loyal of them all to the King, standing tall and proud, his face solemn and handsome. 

Legend also speaks of one, above all the rest. Of the greatest wizard to have ever been and will ever be. Of long flowing robes, voluminous and regal, dark blue as the sky at the deepest hour of the night. Of a hat, conical and pointy, sometimes perched almost jauntily at the top of a head and sometimes thrown into a corner, forgotten in the haste to find some magical potion. Of a beard, thin and long, white as freshly fallen snow and curling slightly at the bottom. Legend would paint him as an old man, almost decrepit with age, standing tall by his King, offering advice and sprouting lines of wisdom at the drop of a hat. There - there is the Court Sorcerer, cursing softly under his breath as he trips over the hem of his robes in his rush to stand by the King, bright blue eyes sharp and intelligent as they sweep through the court, long fingers curled elegantly round a staff. 

But that legend is only half the tale, for the court sorcerer was not always an old man.

\---

Gwen had cried when Merlin had told her the truth, first great big heaving sobs of pain and regret, at the thought that her son would bring about Merlin’s death, and then silent tears of joy as he took her hand and together touched them to her abdomen, soft and reverent. They spent the night together, huddled in her bed, giggling over old stories and whispering of their dreams for the future, just as they used to do when all they were, were simple servants and life was not so complicated. 

But then morning had come and a new day had dawned, bringing with it responsibilities and duties that could not be ignored, no matter how much they wanted to. Gwen had woken up first, looking fondly down at Merlin’s sleeping form, his dark hair curling haphazardly over his face, making him look just like that young boy she had met a long time ago now. Her heart clenched painfully as she ran gentle fingers down the side of his face, tracing lines that hadn’t always been there and small scars that were almost invisible had she not been the one to care them for him. With a final caress of his hair and softly whispered ‘thank you’, Gwen tucked the blankets tightly around Merlin and left him, subconsciously setting her shoulders back and tilting her head higher. There was an announcement to be made, and the people needed to see their Queen well.

And so it was that when the people of Camelot woke up for a new day, it was to the joyous news that the Queen was with child. They watched as she got progressively more radiant, a natural glow settling on her, her cheeks rounding out as her belly swelled bigger. They saw the King always by her side, constantly fussing over her, even as she swatted him away, protesting that she was not an invalid. All these they saw as the months progressed, sharing their Queen’s joy at the pregnancy and the King’s worry at oncoming birth. They remembered a time when Uther had not been so mad, when his eyes had held love as he looked at his wife, when he himself had looked forward to being a father, and they did not wish for their own golden King to face a similar fate. 

But there was plenty still that they did not see. For all her joy and her happiness, they missed the growing grief in Gwen’s eyes every time she looked at Merlin. For all his worrying and his fussing of the Queen, they did not see Arthur’s mother-hen antics around Merlin, constantly shadowing him around the castle or asking one of his knights to do so. Most importantly, they stopped seeing their Court Sorcerer as he once was. 

At first the rumours were that Merlin was bed ridden with an infectious illness. Then as the weeks progressed and no one besides Arthur, Gwen or Lancelot saw him, they changed to him having been cursed by a powerful witch, and that he had been changed so completely as to be totally unrecognizable. When next they saw Merlin, about three months after the announcement, it was true that he was changed and no longer the young man that they had known him to be. 

What really happened was that as Gwen’s belly swelled bigger, Merlin got older - a lot older. The Old Religion was clear: for every life given, another must be taken, and this was something that no one, not even the great Merlin could change. And so it was that with every day that the baby within her lived, Merlin had to give a year of his life. That was the deal that he had made, that night in the forest, a deal made in magic and blood, and that was the deal that he had to keep. 

He had spent those few weeks hiding in his rooms, getting used to creaking joints that used to be sprightly and white hair covering what used to be black. His voice deepened impossibly, the lines on his face becoming more pronounced and he grew a long beard seemingly overnight, one that proved nearly impossible to shave, regrowing itself every night until he deemed it a lost cause. His body ached constantly and in so many places that he wondered how Gaius ever managed to be this old and still be the Court Physician. 

For a while, he had felt too self-conscious to be seen outside his rooms, intensely self-aware of how old and worn he looked next to Arthur and Gwen’s youthful beauty. Merlin knew that he had never been particularly good-looking - his body too slim, his cheekbones too sharp, his lips too full - but he’d always had youth on his side, had always held out that maybe he would age well and all those features of his that seemed so awkward now would settle into grace at some point. Now, it seemed that he had skipped those years completely and arrived at the end without any warning.

So he had sulked in his rooms, and when he needed to get something from outside his room, had skulked around the castle, making sure to keep his head low. He was fairly sure that nobody would be able to recognise him, age doing a far better job at disguising him than any magic would. It was just his luck then, that on one particular trip to the kitchens, when he had been craving porridge because age gave him the oddest cravings ever, he walked right into Arthur, who had been doing his own skulking around Merlin’s rooms. 

He had stumbled backwards, his bones feeling like they’d been run straight into a brick wall, and he noted, distressingly, that Arthur was now taller than him. “Excuse me, my lord.”

Arthur had looked him and then frowned. He bent a little, peering into Merlin’s face. “Merlin?” He asked, surprise and curiosity colouring his voice.

And even as he had been praying that Arthur would not recognise him and that he would be spared this humiliation, a not-so-little part of Merlin swelled at Arthur somehow being able to see that it was him. There had been a thought, forced to the back of his mind, a small niggling little thought - amidst all the magic and the getting used to being old - that had whispered to him that Arthur wouldn’t know him anymore, wouldn’t want him. Because why would the golden king of Albion, with a wife whose dark beauty matched his own glowing presence, want him, and old man with a scraggly beard and face lined with years that he had not yet experienced? 

He’d asked Arthur that night - after Arthur had grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the King’s rooms to be questioned and examined – had whispered it into the darkness with a voice almost too afraid to hear the answer. 

“Because you’re still you.”

Arthur had leaned over him, fingers gently tracing around Merlin’s eyes, “I recognized your eyes. They haven’t changed at all.”

His fingers moved down, over his sunken cheekbones, carding through his beard, before coming back over to rest over a cheek. “And I know your face. I’ll always know your face, god knows I’ve seen it often enough,” Arthur’s voice turned wistful, as if remembering mornings when he’d woken up to Merlin’s face staring right at him, a mischievous grin on his lips. He wondered how many more mornings like that he would get before – before – 

Now it was Arthur’s turn to shut his eyes, forcing that unfinished thought away. It was true – he would always know Merlin’s face, had seen it contorted in pain, had seen it beaming at him with unbridled happiness, had seen it slowly twist with sadness over the past few months. And this, this old Merlin with the same too-blue eyes and the forehead creased with worry lines was just as familiar to him as the rest, just as well-loved too. 

They stayed that way for the rest of night, on their sides and looking at each other’s faces, as if trying to memorise it, and when Gwen found them the next morning, she’d simply closed the door softly and warned the servants against disturbing the King. 

*****

No one ever really knew what happened to the Sorcerer Merlin. 

Some said that he simply went away one day, silently slipping into the forest, the earth and the trees calling out to him. They said he spent the rest of his days there, communing with the very land that had given him power, till he became more tree than man, spouting roots to dig deep into the earth and growing branches to call birds to him, bringing him news of the outside world. 

No, some protest. He didn’t become a tree, they scoff. He’s still in the forest somewhere, appearing as an old man, helping lost travelers find their way back, they claim. 

Then there are those who spin a story of him having fallen in love with the lady of lake and teaching her all his magic. She was a sly witch, they say, who had manipulated him to gain all his knowledge, and when she’d learned it all, she’d turned on him. It is a story of a student finally usurping the teacher, and in King Arthur’s most dire need, Merlin had been bound to an island by his own traitorous magic, unable to come to his King’s aid. 

And then there are the legends of an immortal Merlin, who, upon discovering his King dead in a bloody field, had screamed his magic out to the sky and swore that he would not rest till his King returned. So it is said that he roams the land, watching as Camelot slowly crumbled and Albion faded from memory, patiently waiting for the day that has been promised to him – the day when Albion would have need of him again and the rightful king would return.

It remains a mystery, to this day, as to the fate of Merlin. Some choose to believe that he died, a victim of his own folly, while some have faith that he would return with their King. The truth is, as it often was, a combination of all the stories. 

\---

It was in the eight month of Gwen’s condition when Merlin finally decided it was time. Gwen was getting so big that she spent most of her time resting, and Merlin knew that it was only a matter of weeks, if not days, till the birth. More than that, he could feel it in his bones. He was old now, almost impossibly old, feeling like butter spread too thin over bread. Every movement he made, every word he spoke, every spell he worked took too much from him, leaving him breathless and aching. He’d stopped doing the big magic weeks ago, and just barely had enough in him to heat the water or levitate books – simple spells that he could do since he was a child. It was humiliating, having to admit to Arthur that he was losing his magic and he’d wept the first time he’d tried to heal a broken arm and failed. 

But Gwen was happy, a pinkish tinge to her cheeks making her magnificently beautiful. Merlin often caught her slowly walking the halls, one hand resting gently on her stomach while the other trailed the walls, softly talking to her unborn child. She would stop by a particular alcove or a scorched mark on the floor and explained the significance of such – that was the spot where she and Merlin had spent an evening giggling over Arthur and Morgana’s latest argument, and that was where Merlin had almost died once, a long time ago. All the stories she told, all the places she went, they all had to do with him, and Merlin was all at once overwhelmed by love for this woman whom he had called friend and now Queen, whom amidst her joy and excitement still found the time to remember him.

And so he didn’t regret his actions one bit, and in fact, felt even more convinced that he had done the right thing, because this Gwen - this wonderful happy Gwen - would have this joy to remember for the rest of her life, and that was good enough for him. 

This, he kept telling himself as he went about the day preparing his things, the ache in his heart growing heavier with every passing hour. Merlin had already selected his successor as the Court Sorcerer, a young idealistic man who was excellent at healing spells, if not as battle-hardened as the position required of him. But he would learn, as Merlin had, and while he would never be the advisor Arthur wanted with him, he would be the one that Arthur needed. 

By evening time, Merlin was ready and there was just one more person that he had to visit. Leaning heavily on his walking stick, and how Merlin had hated that his staff was now of more use to him as a walking stick than a magical staff, he knocked on the door to Arthur’s chambers. He could hear voices inside, Gwen’s, he thinks, and Merlin had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat at what they were doing together. 

The door opened, a servant standing behind it with a tray of food. Peering inside, Merlin could see Gwen seated in the middle of the bed, Arthur kneeling next to her as he pressed his ear to her belly. The blinding grin on Arthur’s face slipped away as he looked up and saw Merlin by the door, noting his stick and the bag he had slung over his bent shoulder. He slid of the bed, ordered the servant to leave them and laid a hand on Merlin, as if about to help him into the room. 

Merlin flinched at the touch, his heart still raw at the domesticity of what he had just seen, aching and wanting that to have been him and Arthur. He shrugged off Arthur’s touch and hobbled across the room to where Gwen was now struggling to sit upright, pride not allowing him this one comfort of Arthur’s assistance. 

By the time he made it to the bed, Merlin was panting, his breath sounding harsh in the silence of the room. He slowly lowered himself at the edge and looked up at Gwen, whose earlier girlish giggles have been replaced by an older worry. 

 

“He’s coming soon,” Merlin whispered, laying his trembling hand on the topmost part of her belly. 

“Gwen, I – I’ve – “ Merlin choked, unable to force the words out, and in the end, it seemed as if he needn’t to, because Gwen had laid her hand on top of his and clasped it tightly. 

“I know, Merlin. I know,” she had whispered back, voice shaking slightly, but still strong. 

And there wasn’t anything else to be said, nothing more to be explained, because Gwen already knew and she already understood that he had to leave before the birth of the child. He knew that he was going to die, really properly die, not this slow drawn out death that he’d been slowly going through, when the baby came. With his first breath, he was going to kill Merlin, and Merlin wasn’t going to allow himself to be in Camelot for that; wasn’t going to let his death overshadow the birth of the new prince. 

He was never going to see this child, this prince of Camelot who was going to grow up with a mother who doted on him and a father who loved him. He would never see if he would be the precocious child that Arthur had been, getting into all sorts of trouble and then getting himself out of with just a toothy grin, because even as a toddler, Arthur knew how to charm his way out of trouble. He wouldn’t know if the boy would have Arthur’s golden hair or Gwen’s darker curls, and oh, the thought of a small boy with Arthur’s blue eyes and Gwen’s brown curls was enough to melt his heart. He was never going to see him grow up, never going to be able to teach him all the secret passageways that Camelot had, never going to kiss his brow or read him stories, and it was this sharp loss that finally broke Merlin. 

Bending his head till it rested against her belly, Merlin cried. He cried for the child who would never know Merlin, he cried for Gwen who would look at her son and think of her best friend and he cried for Arthur who would be a great father despite all his fears. But most of all, he cried for himself, that young boy who had come to Camelot full of dreams that he would now no longer see. 

Gwen just held him as he cried, saying nothing and wrapping her arms around him, till finally his sobs became soft hiccups. With a final soft kiss to the belly and softly whispered blessing, Merlin extricated himself from her arms and walked towards the ante-chamber where he knew Arthur would be waiting.

He was already exhausted, feeling both mentally and emotionally worn out, but he needed to do this. Arthur deserved a goodbye at the very least.   
“You’re leaving,” came Arthur’s voice, accusing, just as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. 

“Yes.”

Arthur wheeled around to face him, anger burning in his eyes, “Why?”

Of course Arthur would be difficult and of course Arthur would need him to explain it, when Gwen had been able to understand without so much as a word, because this was Arthur and he wouldn’t be him if he wasn’t difficult. “I can’t be here when your son is born, Arthur. Gwen will need you then, and so will he. I can’t be here to distract you.”

“But I don’t want you to go.” Arthur’s voice turned plaintive, and this - this soft Arthur who was so close to begging - Merlin had no defence against. 

He laid his palm over Arthur’s heart, feeling the solid thumping of it, gaining a little bit of strength in knowing that Arthur, at least, was going to lead a long happy life, and that he, in some small way, had helped in giving him that. He leaned in, their kiss nothing more than a gentle pressing of the lips, and for a moment, one blinding shining moment, Merlin felt nineteen again - young, naïve, foolish and more in love with his prince than he ever thought possible. But then the moment passed and Merlin found himself back in a body that felt hollow with no magic to fill it. 

Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin, “We were supposed to grow old together, you and I. I was going to be the one to complain about my aching knees and you were supposed to grumble about me still being a prat at sixty. And then you were supposed to help me heal. I was going to laugh with you about the new knights and we were going to reminisce about how things were so much better when we were younger.”

“Who’s going to help me with my knees now when it’s cold out, Merlin? Who am I supposed to complain about the new idiots now?” His voice broke, “Who’s going to call me a prat now?”

Arthur, his brilliant Arthur, was breaking and Merlin had to try a few times before he managed to croak out, “Don’t lie, Arthur. Your knees are not that bad, you prat.”

There was a strangled sob from Arthur, but Merlin forced himself to continue, “Lancelot will be there with you to complain about the new knights. But don’t be too harsh on them. They’re young and new, but they’ll be great one day, too.” 

Merlin swallowed. “You be good to your knights. And to Gwen and Lancelot. And Arthur, you love that son when he comes. Don’t you dare love him any less than he deserves. Don’t you dare treat him as anything but the prince he is,” Merlin paused, frowning fiercely at Arthur. “Because I will know, Arthur. I will know, and when I see you again, I will beat you senseless, you hear me?”

Finally, Arthur chuckled, and Merlin smiled back at him. “Love that boy, adore him, spoil him. Do it for me.”

They fell into silence, the two of them standing still like stone figures, each gripping the other tightly, not quite willing to let go yet. He had to go soon before it got too dark, he knew that, but it still took a while before Merlin could quite make himself release his hold on Arthur. 

He left Arthur standing by the window as he made his way to the door, gathering his walking stick and bag, glad that he needn’t go through the main chambers and see Gwen again. Merlin stopped by the door, wanting to say something, to have some sort of last words with Arthur, but unwilling to let it be ‘goodbye’. And so, he left Arthur with this:

“One day, some day, I will see you again. You’ll turn a corner, and there I’ll be again. And it will be like no time has passed at all. You just wait, Arthur. I will see you again.”

*****

There are some stories that even legends forget.

They say that with the death of King Arthur, Camelot soon fell into ruin, lacking a true heir to lead her out of the darkness. Her enemies came for her, fast and ruthless, pillaging her villages, killing and raping as they went, heedless of their screams and pleadings for mercy. Camelot had no heir, and so was up for the taking, open and vulnerable for any distant ruler to seize her for his own, by war and bloodshed, just as she had been won a long time ago by Uther Pendragon. 

It is said that she eventually fell into the hands of the Romans, years after her King’s death and lacking much of her previous glory. It was not long after that that her boundaries were broken and merged with neighbouring lands till Camelot stood no more, replaced by a foreign name and a foreign king. The trees stopped lamenting for its King and the land forgot what it was like to have magic coursing through it. Generation after generation of people were born under this new rule till they too forgot that Camelot once existed, that Albion was once peaceful and that there once was a man called Arthur who ruled the lands. Slowly Camelot faded from memory till it was nothing more than a story, a myth, a legend from some long-forgotten time. 

But there are some stories that were never told, some stories that remain a mystery. And this is one such story. 

\---

They named him Emrys. 

He came into the world crying, face red as he screamed out his displeasure at being forced to leave the warm comfort of the womb. It wasn’t the loud crying that surprised everyone, or even the furniture levitating an inch of the ground, something they accepted as par the course with a magical birth, but the moment he had been cleaned and given to Gwen to hold, they knew he was different. 

His hair was black. 

Not the light blonde of Arthur’s or even the dark brown of Gwen’s, but a deep, dark black that they had only seen on one person before. His eyes were blue too, and that, at least, they could attribute to Arthur, even though they were a shade different and prone to shifting to gold, something which, once again, they attributed to a trick of the light at first. 

It soon became clear that, while he possessed Arthur’s toothy grin and Gwen’s tinkling laughter, Emrys was very much, Merlin’s child - the dark messy hair, thick even at childbirth; the bright blue eyes, too sharp and clear for a newborn; and most of all, the magic. The levitating furniture during the birth they could explain away, but after the second, third and fourth time they had seen him rearranging the room in the middle of a tantrum, they had to accept that their son had magic. 

He grew up a happy boy, Emrys, dividing his time between his sword lessons with Arthur, who insisted on teaching his own son, and his magic lessons with the new Court Sorcerer. Gwen had been wary at first at Arthur teaching their son, worried that Arthur would let his impatience get the better of him, but her worries were soon put to rest when she saw how he gently guided Emrys’ hands, how he positioned the boy’s legs better, how he lavished praise on him for every well executed move. No, Arthur was not his father’s son, not prone to blaming his son for taking away the one thing he loved more than anything, and if she caught him staring at Emrys sometimes with such a deep longing in his eyes as to break her heart, then she said nothing of it. 

It was hard, of course, having a son that was the living and breathing memory of Merlin. Gwen would sometimes crawl into bed with him, holding him tightly to her and breathing in his scent, trying to find the traces of Merlin in that smell. She would see a dark head bobbing round the corner and was almost shouting out ‘Merlin!’, before stopping herself. She would hear him say ‘prat’ in that tone of him, referring to some boy who had annoyed him, and could only think of the countless times Merlin had come to her, complaining about Arthur. She remembered Hunith’s reaction to seeing Emrys for the first time since he was a baby, remembered her sharp intake of breath and the tremble in her voice as she had spoken to the boy, remembered the tight hug that she had given him, whispering ‘Merlin, Merlin, Merlin’ under her breath as Emrys had stared up at Gwen in confusion.

They told him stories of Merlin, never letting him forget the man who had given his life so that he could live. Arthur regaled him with stories of Merlin’s epic clumsiness, sometimes doing the motions, till they were both doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down their face. Gwen told him of all the times Merlin had stood by her side as her friend, watching Emrys’ little face nodding solemnly to her words. And one time, after he had been caught bullying one of the servants, Lancelot had sat him down and told him of a young peasant boy who had once dared to call the prince ‘an arse’.

He grew up a solemn young boy, weighed down by the expectations of the dead placed upon him. Sure he laughed and played with the other children, but more often than not, Gwen would find him standing alone by the parapet, staring down at the courtyard. She wondered sometimes if she was a bad mother to look at her son and see another man, if she hadn’t doomed Emrys to a life of constantly trying to live up to their expectations and feeling like he had failed. She loved him, she really did, and she was forever grateful to Merlin for having given her her son, and she wondered if she told Emrys this often enough. 

She crawled into his bed that night, pulling him tight against her, and even as he grumbled that he was too old to be sleeping with his mother, he snuggled in a little closer to her. She tucked his head under her chin and whispered softly in his ear, “You know I love you, right, Emrys? And your father too. We’re proud of you, no matter what you do. You’ll never disappoint us, so don’t even worry about that.”

He’d turned towards her, forehead scrunched in a small frown as he looked at her. “I know, mother.” He yawned then, and started to drift back off to sleep. “He says he’s proud of me too.”

“Who?”

And as Emrys finally succumbed to the darkness, he whispered one last word, “Merlin.”

*****

At the heart of every great story is a tale about love. Be it the love that man has for a lover, something so strange and foreign to him at first till it settled in his bones and became a part of him, or the love that friends share, a love forged in shared experiences, in laughter and in tears till they too become a part of each other. Or sometimes it is the love that an uncle has for his nephew, a fierce protective love that can make a child feel safe and content even when his insecurities threaten to overwhelm him. 

It seems strange that one person can love so many people so fiercely and so deeply, and shouldn’t their heart burst with holding all of that in? But it is possible, and it is every day that we see ordinary people, average people leading unexciting lives share that much love with the people around them. And at the end of the day, after all the work is done and their lives have been lived, when they’re nothing more than rotting bones buried in the ground, it is not their deeds that are remembered, or the amount of money they have saved, but rather the people they have loved. 

It is that heart, that small beating organ capable of doing great deeds, that makes us worthy of being remembered in stories and in legends.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Emrys finally meet.

He comes back as soon as he can, but it’s not nearly soon enough for years, decades, have passed and things are so much more different now. 

Arthur is dead and Camelot is burning. 

Arthur is dead. 

Merlin wants to scream at the injustice of it, at having clawed his way back, at having finally made it home only to find out he’s too late. Much too late, and now there’s nothing more to be done but wait for the fires to die out. 

“He waited for you,” says Emrys. There’s no condemnation in his voice, just a tiredness borne out of witnessing a proud man brought to his knees.  
“Every day, he waited for you, sure that you would be back, that maybe today would be the day.” He turned then to look at Merlin, eyes shockingly blue, a perfect mirror to his. “Why didn’t you come?”

He’d tried. 

He’d come back as soon as he could, but he hadn’t been borned fully grown, memories intact. He had a father this time, an older brother, a young sister. His mother had been a portly woman, possessing of a pair of gentle brown eyes so reminiscent of his own mother, his real mother that he had cried that first night he remembered, cried bitter tears at never seeing Hunith again, at having left her alone in the world as her only son died. And this woman had been his mother too, had loved him and cared for him, had scolded him and chastised him, and he had cried for her too, for she had a son that had never been hers, would never be hers. 

“What happened?” His voice is raw, the billowing smoke scratching thick against his throat and he can taste the smoky grayness of ash in his mouth, pretends that it is Arthur that he tastes, Arthur burning with his people, sitting proud on his throne even as the fires licked at his skin, his clothes already nothing more than dust particles. 

Emrys shrugged, the movement as familiar to him as if it had been Arthur who’d made it. “War came. One after another, they came, vying for pieces of land. We were strong, he was strong, but --”

\-- Merlin wasn’t there, and without him there, without his magic, Camelot had fallen. 

“He sent us away – Mother and I, Lancelot too,” he clarifies. “We were,” Emrys pauses, as if searching for the right word, “happy,” is what he finally settles on. 

“Were they?” Merlin wonders. Were they really happy? Could a son ever be truly happy knowing that the happiness of his mother laid not in the arms of his father, but in another man, even if that man was as noble as Sir Lancelot? Could a man ever be truly happy knowing that his King was missing another, that his heart was forever cloven in two, missing its other half? And could a prince ever be truly at peace knowing that his kingdom was all the more weaker without its sorcerer?

He supposes they were, in a sense, for here stood Emrys, whole and alive, face glowing in the amber light of the fire, worry writ large on it as he watches his rightful people scream for their lives. Yes, there is a weariness in him, a sadness too, but there is no bitterness, no regret, and that refusal to allow the battles that life has handed to him bring him down is his gift from his parents. There is Gwen’s ability to see the best in every situation in the slope of his shoulders, burdened but strong, and the stubborn tilt of his chin that says he is better than this, that he will find a way to make things better, is all Arthur. And perhaps there is a hint of Merlin, too, in the gold of his eyes as he watches the fire. 

“Where will you go now?” Emrys asks, pretending he doesn’t know what happens next, hasn’t seen it in his dreams. He feels like his knows this man, this strange enigmatic man who has appeared in his dreams a thousand times before and yet this is the first time they have met. But he knows his heart, knows the intricate weavings of it, knows how it beats and how it loves, how it hates and how it hurts, for it is his heart that he wears now, and he can feel it hurting, almost like a physical ache deep in his chest. 

“To Camelot,” Merlin replies, for where else could he go, where else could he belong if not by Arthur’s side, even if all that’s left of him is a pile of bones and a charred throne. And so saying, he throws a smile a smile at Emrys and walks forward, towards Camelot, towards Arthur.


End file.
